60 Pubs in York
by CeeCeeSings
Summary: My first foray into Baxley fic. As the title implies, the story will revolve around their journeys and investigations in York, to exonerate Bates for the murder of Mr. Greene. As my Chelsie readers know, I tend to write in-canon, but there's lots of empty canvas with these two. I hope to fill some of it in satisfactorily.
1. No Comparison

**60 Pubs in York**

 **A/N: Okay. So. I don't really 'ship Baxley the way I do Chelsie (and I will always write about _them_ ) and I will admit, I didn't always like or even sympathize with Molesley. But the interplay between these two feels so redemptive and there's so much untold and unknown (about her, especially) that it feels like a rich vein of ore to mine. I came up with this idea a while ago, kept shelving it, taking it down, brushing off the dust, and putting it back again. I've finally decided to give it a go. True Baxley 'shippers, keep me in line. Tell me what I've done wrong, and where I stray. And if I'm on the right track. ~CeeCee**

She moved the food pedal of her machine rhythmically, the low humming vibration of it soothing, nearly hypnotic. She glanced up at the clock on the wall over the long, battered table in the servants' hall. Nearly 10 o'clock. Her ladyship had retired early this evening, at half-past nine. Lord Grantham had entered his wife's bedroom right before she had finished assisting her ladyship with bedtime preparations, and Phyllis could sense that he was agitated.

 _Who can blame him?_ She thought. Phyllis Baxter paid attention to people. To _everyone_. Some of it was in her nature, but much of it had been learned, fostered, by Peter Coyle, all those years ago. But while Coyle used his (and hers, oh yes, he'd used her, in many ways, until there was very little left of her she could recognize) powers of observation to benefit himself, Phyllis always strove, these days, that her attention would do some good, put something valuable back into the world.

She owed the world that, at least.

She owed _herself_ that...perhaps.

In any case, she understood that John Bates' disappearance wasn't solely upsetting to Robert Crawley because of the inconvenience of losing a valet, or even the loyalty of an employer troubled by the travails of a hardworking servant. No, she knew that the men had forged a friendship, _during a war_ , nonetheless, and Mr. Bates' confession and flight to Ireland, or beyond, was all the more upsetting for it.

She assumed that the authorities would have to release Anna Bates, which was a relief. Anna was not the type of woman who would last indefinitely in the sort of dark places that prisons were. Phyllis understood this; the blackness was so relentless, survival became focusing on the pinpoint of hope, that day of release. It seeped into your bones, your mind, your heart and your soul.

She wasn't sure she'd completely shaken the shadows of her past. They seemed to crowd the corners of her vision, no matter how much she tried to distract herself with brighter things. She lived in them for such a long time, the light sometimes felt too harsh to her, though she'd been slowly learning to appreciate that it's was still there. And that there _might_ be a place for her in it.

The sewing machine continued to hum along predictably under her steady guidance, and she gently pushed her wandering thoughts aside, for the moment. With few exceptions, Phyllis found it more than possible to spend hours, no _days,_ speaking only when it was required of her, out of duty or politeness. She hadn't always been so. She sometimes wondered if she had been allotted so many words to speak in her lifetime, and had used far too many of them far too quickly. It bothered her far less than a younger version of herself would have thought.

She hummed a little to herself, a duet with her machine. She wasn't sure how long she was bent over it, threading the hem of a beautiful gown through carefully, but she was pulled out of her reverie by the smell of strong tea. She raised her eyes and saw Joseph Molesley standing in the entryway to the hall, two teacups in hand.

Her heart did a small roll in her chest, a concise but languid movement.

"Miss Baxter," he said, clearing his throat a little. "I don't mean to disturb your work, but I thought you might like a cup of tea?" He walked towards her, placing both cups on the table. "May I join you?"

"Please do, Mr. Moseley," she smiled as he sat across from her, her heart still pounding a little. She set aside both the machine and the frock she had been working on. She didn't think she'd be returning to them tonight. She thought of Joseph as someone comprised of layers of softness, gentleness, but there was a sharpness to his mind that she knew many at Downton didn't catch on to, sometimes, most of all, _himself._ But she could see, now, on his face, his mind was working something out, and he wanted to share it with her.

And she wanted to hear it. To give it her full attention.

It reminded her of how she felt when Peter Coyle would press his body close to hers, in ways and in places and at times that entirely flouted propriety.

It made her think of how she felt, when she'd stole that jewelry, and breathlessly, desperately, went to meet her erstwhile lover.

She felt _awake_ for the first time, in a long time. But she also felt _safe._

"You've something on your mind, haven't you, Mr. Molesley?"

"Indeed, I do, Miss Baxter," his forehead crinkled, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. His eyes were focused somewhere over her shoulder. He was thinking. He shook his head, as if to clear it, and brought his eyes down, to join her gaze. He smiled a little, though his brow was still folded thoughtfully. "It's about Mr. Bates, you see."

And then he did something that surprised her. He pulled out a nice studio portrait of the runaway valet, laid it on the table.

"You'd say that was a fair likeness of him, would you, Miss Baxter?"

"Yes, I would, Mr. Molesley," she picked it up, studied it. She meant it. The portrait was rather standard, but it somehow conveyed Mr. Bates' amiable seriousness. "It… _feels_ like him, if you understand me?"

He broke into a grin, and she found herself responding in kind. He was a very dear man.

"I'm glad you've said that, Miss Baxter, because I've an idea," he took the photo from her, his fingers brushing hers. It sent a small thrill up her arm, made her think, in certain ways, of stolen moments in the pantry with Peter. But also, not anything like that at all. Not in the least. "I was thinking – and, I would value your opinion here – what if I took this photo, on my day off, to York? Visit the pubs there, see if anyone remembers Mr. Bates being there that day? The day Mr. Greene was pushed?"

Phyllis' pounding heart danced a bit faster. "Mr. Molesley! What an excellent idea. And what a generous one." She wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone more different than Peter Coyle than Joseph Molesley. And yet, her heart responded to him, enthusiastically. Perhaps, it was healing, after all.

"You don't think it's foolish, then? A wild goose chase?"

"I don't. I certainly think it's worth trying, given that a man's life – and his wife's – are in the balance," she grinned broadly at him. "Even if there must be hundreds of pubs in York."

"My thoughts exactly," he didn't seem daunted at the idea. "I've a plan, though; I think it's best if I start close to the train station, on the main streets, and expand the search from there if I've no luck." He appeared so eager to begin, she thought for a moment he might just up, dash a way, grab his coat and hat and head out the door immediately.

"Mr. Molesley," she began hesitantly, but pushed her self-doubt aside. He enjoyed her company, perhaps, even admired her, felt fondly towards her. There was no need to feel he'd turn her down. "Mr. Molesley, if you'd be willing, I'd like to join you, at least for some of the trips, if I might?"

He'd been carefully studying Mr. Bates' photo, but now his head snapped up. A wayward strand of his fine hair fell over his forehead. He looked like a schoolboy who'd gotten called on by his favorite teacher. He swallowed, hard. Looked again at the spot over her shoulder.

"Miss Baxter, I would be _honored_ if you would accompany me," he stated. He seemed as if he wanted to say more, but quickly closed his mouth.

"The honor is _mine,_ Mr. Molesley," she said softly. "There aren't very many people who would give up their spare days off to trudge through York. You remind the rest of us how to be." She stood, gathering their cups and saucers. She needed to go, before she said too much.

He looked up at her, his eyes wide, still seated for the moment. Then his good grooming kicked in, and he stood, but his face still held confusion.

"It's as you yourself said, Miss Baxter – a man's _life_ is at stake. How can a day off compare?"

She was glad both of her hands were occupied with the dishes. Otherwise, she was certain she'd reach across the table to stroke the stray hair back over his nearly bald pate. Thought briefly of the many times she'd run her hands through Peter Coyle's thick, dark curls.

"Good night, Mr. Molesley," she managed. "And you're right – there's no comparison. See you tomorrow."


	2. The Mucky Duck & The White Swan

**Chapter 2 – The Mucky Duck & The White Swan**

 **A/N: Thank you all for the warm response so far, here and on Tumblr. I'll write this as long as I can get a sense of the characters. I am going to try and rotate chapters between his and her viewpoints, depending on if I can get his "voice" right. Please do let me know. I want to do right by these guys. ~CeeCee**

Joseph Molesley was used to playing the fool.

The feeling was a familiar one, something that sat high in his chest, stuck there, like a generous bite of food he hadn't chewed thoroughly enough, then tried to swallow. He was so used to it that, when it was absent, he felt…adrift, somehow. Unmoored, and unsure of the end result.

At least, when he was the joke, he knew when the punchline was coming. It was being taken seriously that was confusing to him. When the smile being aimed in his direction was genuine, not taunting. Or worse, pitying.

And, when the person smiling at him was Phyllis Baxter. Like she was now. They'd just gotten off the York Tramway, and they now stood, huddled close together, as a stream of humanity split around them.

"Where is our first stop, then, Mr. Molesley?" That smile of hers. If he didn't know better, when she smiled like that at him, it was as if she hadn't a care in the world, in that moment or ever.

"Well, Miss Baxter, we can try either the Mucky Duck or the White Swan," he held the bend of his elbow out towards her, and she tucked her gloved hand into it as if it had always been meant to fit there. He was beginning to hope it had.

"I'll leave the decision up to you, Mr. Molesley. This was your grand idea, after all."

He looked at her face intently. He'd never met anyone quite like her, the way he felt about her, when he let himself linger on it, was simultaneously deeply unfamiliar and utterly right.

He would wait, oftentimes, for her to break his gaze, or to laugh, brush him off, even mock him. She never did.

She just met him where he was, matching his glance serenely. And when she did for too long, he'd adjust his gaze just over her shoulder, so he could concentrate on his thoughts. But now, he took in her fair skin and decided.

"The White Swan, I think, Miss Baxter," he tilted his head in the direction of their destination. "Then, the Mucky Duck."

"What if we get lucky, Mr. Molesley? What if the White Swan is where Mr. Bates had his lunch that day?"

"You don't really think that's possible, do you, Miss Baxter?" He stopped, considered her, feeling his eyes widen. It never, not once, occurred to him that this venture could be that easy, and over so quickly.

She paused, patted his arm through his jacket. "It's possible, of course, Mr. Molesley. Not likely, but possible."

"I…I never even _considered_ it, to be perfectly honest, Miss Baxter," he replied, shaking his head at something so obvious. "I suppose I just _assumed_ that if we found anyone, anything at all, that could help Mr. Bates, it would be incredibly lucky, in and of itself. To find something valuable on the very first day, in the very first place we go…well."

She looked at him for a long moment, and his heart began to pound fiercely. Several emotions passed over her face in the minute or so before she spoke.

"Anything is possible, Mr. Molesley," she spoke nearly in a whisper. "I believe that. Let's find the White Swan, shall we?"

oooOOOooo

No one remembered Mr. Bates at the White Swan, or the Mucky Duck, or The Rose & Crown, their third stop and where they were currently eating lunch. Though part of him was disappointed, most of him felt that familiar sense of impending defeat creeping in.

Miss Baxter was considering him across the small table, sipping her coffee. "We'll have time for another few places before we head back?"

"Yes, I believe we do," he pulled out the small leather-bound book he'd bought specifically for these trips. He looked at the long columns of pub names, and for a moment, the letters jumped and danced before his eyes. He sighed. The list seemed endless, and they could only strike three off with any certainty.

He wasn't in any way ready to give up, but the numbers _were_ daunting. He brushed his hand over his nearly-bald head, thinking. Their time had gone by quickly today; he attributed some of that to her pleasing, welcome company, but it was more than that. There was no one right way to approach the publican or barkeep on duty that was the right one; each establishment they'd visited was a little different than the next, with a different clientele.

They had fumbled their way through an explanation in both The White Swan and The Mucky Duck, but they'd hit their stride here, at The Rose & Crown. Between the two of them, they'd gotten the young man behind the counter to appreciate what they were on about, and that it was important. He had stopped cleaning glasses to really focus on John Bates' photograph, at Miss Baxter's gentle persuasion. And it was he, Joseph, who made sure to explain Mr. Bates' significant bulk, his limp, to the barkeep. The things that would make him stand out in someone's memory.

"Where to next?" Phyllis was taking the final sip of her coffee.

"We'll try The Lamb & the Lion, The Three Crows, and The Gillygate. Then, I'm afraid, we'll have to postpone our search until next week," he was quickly calculating in his head. "I hope we'll visit at least fifty, sixty spots before the holidays, Miss Baxter. If only to feel that we're making progress." Christmas was mere weeks away, but he considered; certainly, they would get better and better at their searching; they already were, from when they started a few hours ago. They might even get to the point where they could visit twice as many pubs as they had today. Though of course, the more places they visited, the further and further the pair of them would have to go away from the tramway station…

He realized, with a start, that he assumed she'd continue searching with him, that she wasn't utterly bored or frustrated by the dull, plodding work. Or the dull, plodding company.

"I apologize, Miss Baxter, for my assumption that you'd be continuing these trips with me," he shifted his gaze from the endless names of pubs to her face. "I'll not lie, the search will take half the time, or less, if the two of us work together…" he trailed off, lest his voice reveal more that he wanted it to. Lest the tone reveal not only friendship, or admiration, but love.

She set her coffee cup aside, wiped her mouth with her napkin. "Of course, I'll join you, Mr. Molesley, as often as I can, hopefully, each week. We are a good team, you and I." She reached over, squeezed his hand gently. Then, nearly before he could appreciate the sensation of their skin against each other, it was gone.

"I'll settle the bill with the barkeep," he cleared his throat, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape.

"Thank you for lunch, Mr. Molesley."

He waved her words away with a nodded and a smile, then headed towards the bar to pay. As he waited for the man to return from the till with his change, he studied her, sitting at their window table, dreamily looking out onto the bustle of the street.

He didn't know everything there was to know about Phyllis Baxter, not nearly. She carried secrets he could only guess at, and wasn't sure he entirely wanted to. But then, there was so much about _him_ she didn't know. She didn't know of his shameful behavior before the war, nor of the fact that, right before she came to Downton, that he was working on a road crew just to survive, to help his father survive.

She didn't understand that he was supposed to be the butt of every joke, that he was meant to be the perpetual fool. She looked at him as if he were someone else, someone new. Someone, possibly, he could be. Maybe already _was_ , in some ways.

He studied the curved lines of her profile, and a small smile flickered across his mouth. _The white swan,_ he thought again, though he knew her past wasn't precisely pristine. It still suited her. _I guess that makes me the mucky duck,_ he chuckled to himself as he took his change. A joke, certainly. But it didn't seem to be on him, not this time.


	3. The Golden Phoenix

**Chapter 3 – The Golden Phoenix**

Her ladyship had only needed Phyllis briefly this morning. Cora Crawley had seemed dreamy and distracted all fall, and she wondered briefly if the rather intense art dealer that had been lurking on the edge of everything for a while there wasn't the cause of her mistress' lack of focus. She was like a woman awoken from a troubling but exciting dream.

It wasn't any of her concern, not really. She pushed all thoughts aside of what may or may not have happened between Lady Grantham and the beady-eyed Simon Bricker in the past few months and week. Something in the man's gaze, however, had reminded her too much of certain wolves from her past to completely shake these thoughts free.

She made her way to her attic bedroom, in the women's sleeping hall, several garments she'd taken for minor repairs draped over one arm. She met Mrs. Hughes coming out of her own bedroom, hat in hand, on her way towards her own.

"Good morning, Miss Baxter! All is well with her ladyship, I expect? I know you were hoping for your half-day today. Will you be taking it, then?" The housekeeper examined her with a sharp eye. Elsie Hughes was fair to a fault, and a true democrat. And a keeper of secrets, without being a judge and jury, though she certainly had her own opinion about them.

"I will be, Mrs. Hughes, if it's convenient for you?"

"That it 'tis, and it explains why Mr. Molesley's cooling his heels in the servants' hall, looking slightly lost," the housekeeper's mouth twitched with the barest hint of a smile.

"We've plans today, and I've kept him too long," she gestured to the dresses on her arm. "I'll leave these, and change quickly." She felt her cheeks grow warm, but she was steadfast. She had decided on that beach in Brighton, two summers ago: not to hide her growing fondness for Joseph Molesley.

While she would never again throw herself mindlessly at a man, as she had with Peter, she neither thought being coy or secretive was useful. Affection that was intentionally hidden, illicit, could never thrive, or be _truly_ healthy. Hadn't she learned that?

The teasing on Elsie Hughes' face shifted into something gentler. "Never you mind, Miss Baxter. It's your day off, take as long as you need getting ready. I'll have Mrs. Patmore make Mr. Molesley a cup of tea, and let him know you're on your way."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she murmured, and went into her room. _And thank you for not asking me questions I certainly couldn't answer truthfully, but wouldn't want to lie to you about._

It was in these moments that Phyllis felt that, at long last, she'd found her place in the world. And it happened to be in grand house on a sprawling country estate, owned by an Earl. Life was funny, sometimes.

oooOOOooo

"Shall we try one more?"

There were standing on a cobbled side-street, with the November wind blowing the length of its twisting route, raising swirling bits of rubbish and dead leaves in its wake. They'd been fruitful today, if she only considered the number of names they'd been able to cross off their seemingly endless list.

She nodded her agreement, wrapping her scarf more securely around her neck. He bent his head over the list again, determining their final spot for the day.

"Alright, then, Miss Baxter," he offered his arm to her, and led her down the slight slope the side street made. "Right around this bend, there should be – ah, yes! The Golden Phoenix, here it is." They both considered the intricately painted sign hanging over the heavy wooden door. The haughty-looking bird stared down at them, sideways, from one eye, a talon raised. In greeting or warning, Phyllis couldn't tell.

They pushed their way inside, where it was surprisingly cozy and inviting. In the past few weeks, she'd gotten used to being the only woman in a room full of drinking men in various states of intoxication. But this little snug, with its warm orange lighting and enticing smell of some sort of stew and fresh bread, boasted several women other than herself, including one behind the bar.

Joseph was helping her off with her coat when she had an idea.

"Mr. Molesley?"

"Yes, Miss Baxter?" He was turning towards the bar. She reached out, laid her hand on his jacket sleeve.

"Let me, this time," she let her eyes travel towards the female barkeep.

"Ah," he glanced over at the woman, her rusty red hair piled precariously on top of her head, laughing delightedly at one of the patrons, then back at Phyllis. Considered, then nodded. "Yes, I believe you're right, Miss Baxter. I've not the right touch with ladies, I don't think. You'll fare far better, I'm sure."

"Your touch is just fine, Mr. Molesley. _More_ than fine," she gave his arm a squeeze, briefly imagined it wrapped around her waist. "It's just…well, let me see what I can do." She took John Bates' photo from his proffered hand, and walked purposefully towards the bar, not waiting for him to offer to pay for their drinks.

"Howya, love. What yeh havin'?" The flame-haired barkeep grinned at her. Phyllis considered for a moment, watched the woman down half a beer in two quick gulps.

"Two half-pints, please," she nodded towards their table. She could have coffee later.

"Alright, then," the woman began pouring their drinks, set them on the battered bar. "There you are, one for you, one for yer fella."

"Thank you," she took a deep breath. "We're actually from out of town, just visiting. Someone told us we had to stop in here. 'The Phoenix, they'll take good care of you there, there's none like it in York.' And now I see what he meant."

"Did he now? 'Twas awfully nice of 'im, your friend, and we aim to please." The proprietress was grinning triumphantly at her.

"I will. You see, our friend is in a bit of trouble, but we know he was here, in York, when…when the trouble happened, so it couldn't have been him. Would you mind, terribly, taking a look at this photo of him? See if you recognize him? He fought in the Boers, and has a limp. He's rather tall, and solemn." Phyllis gave her the date and time Mr. Bates would have been stopping in for lunch.

"Of course, love, give it here," the woman took the photo and really examined it, pouring over John Bates' image looking seriously up at them. She looked back up at Phyllis with real regret in her eyes.

"Nay, love, I've not seen anyone lookin' like that man here," she shook her head. For the first time in their search, Phyllis was hit with a sense of hopelessness. She suddenly felt very tired. The barkeep held a finger up to her, walked away for a moment, into a back room. She returned with a platter of warm brown bread, jam and butter.

"Here, you and your fella eat this, drink up, and you'll have a better perspective afterwards. Trust me, eh? 'Tis on me."

"Not at all, I insist –"

"And _I_ am more used to insisting, I think, than you are, love, so go on with you. I only hope that, were I ever in trouble, I'd have as good friends as yours seems to." And she practically pushed Phyllis in the direction of her table.

She sat across from Joseph, passed him one of the glasses, carefully setting the small plate of bread on the table.

"Nothing?" He was examining her face closely.

"No," she paused, sipped the beer. It wasn't terrible, though she wasn't used to the taste. And the bread smelled incredible. She didn't realize how hungry she was until the proprietress had handed it to her. Her companion was carefully buttering a piece of it; he smiled, handed it to her. She took a bite, and was forcibly reminded of her childhood. There wasn't a lot of good memories there, but the taste of brown bread was one of them…

"This is delicious," she answered. She wished her voice didn't sound so sad.

"That it is," he'd taken a bite of his own piece, and was studying her intently. He shifted his gaze to the ledger book in front of him, crossed out another name on the list. "No luck at The Phoenix," he muttered, and she sat quietly while he looked carefully around the room. She could see his eyes moving quickly back and forth. She liked watching his mind working, sorting things through.

"So, that's twenty-five places down, Miss Baxter," he sighed. "You know, at first I thought we should simply work outwards from the tramway station, or the train station. But now I'm not so sure…" he scratched his nose thoughtfully, leaving a smear of pencil lead on the bridge.

"What do you mean?" She was hoping he'd clear the smudge accidentally, but he hadn't yet. It was terribly sweet, and terribly distracting.

"Well, suppose we're looking at this the wrong way? Suppose…suppose Mr. Bates, after running his errands, and contemplating going to London…" he trailed off again, thinking hard. "Well, suppose he decided firmly against it. What sort of place, do you think, he'd want to lunch in? How would he be feeling, in that moment?"

"He'd want to be comforted, and calmed, I think. He'd want a place _just like this,_ " she grinned, and he nodded.

"I think so, too. So, perhaps, we go back to Downton, and after dinner, I'll sift through these, prioritize them, with that in mind. What do you think?" He'd gotten the smudge. She could laugh at how disappointed she was that she couldn't wipe it away for him.

"I think that's a grand idea, Mr. Molesley. And after her ladyship's retired, I'll help," she took another sip of her beer. "Cheers." She raised her glass to his, and they smiled at each other.

oooOOOooo

They stood outside of the Phoenix in the waning afternoon light, ready to head to the tramway station, then home, to Downton.

"Well, 'twasn't the place we were looking for, but it provided a bit of inspiration." He sat his cap firmly on his head, grinning up at the hanging sign over the door.

"What, exactly, is it? A phoenix?" She was standing next to him, close enough to catch whiffs of the masculine smell of him. Her stomach flipped, danced a little. He turned his face towards her, and she steadfastly kept her eyes focused on the golden sign above them. He was far too close for her to turn towards him, without consequences.

"It's a creature from Greek mythology, a bird that lives for a very long time, bursts into flames, then rises up, alive, from its own ashes," he turned back towards the sign, smiling up at it again. "Rather hopeful, that."

"Something good coming out of the bad," she nodded, and now she _did_ turn to study his profile. She linked her arm through his.

"Not just good," he shook his head, stole a quick glance at her. "Something beautiful."


	4. Completely Natural

**Chapter 4 – Completely Natural**

 **A/N: Thank you, all, very much, for your response to this Baxley tale of mine. I am glad they are ringing true to those of you who have lived with them and loved them longer than I have I appreciate each and every one of your reviews, and once RL slows down, I will get back to responding to all that I can directly (and to my guest readers, I tip my hat to you, though I cannot answer directly. I appreciate all you have to say!)**

 **I am in the midst of working on a Chelsie story as well; I am…sort of writing whichever story decides to be written when I have a chance to sit at my computer. This one is sort of yelling at me to write it already, so that's what I am doing. ;-)**

 **~CeeCee**

Late Evening, Downton's Servants' Hall

Joseph sat at the far end of the long table in the servants' hall, pouring over his leather notebook. He wasn't entirely familiar with all of the pubs on his list (he'd have to be someone with far more free time to be so), but he knew enough of them, either by firsthand experience or word of mouth, to sort through which ones were the likeliest based on he and Phyllis Baxter's musings earlier today.

She'd also dashed back into The Golden Phoenix to ask the helpful barkeep her thoughts on similar establishments, returned with a half dozen hastily written suggestions, and handed it to him triumphantly. His heart skipped a little, as it often did, when he thought of her smile. Especially when it was directed at him.

Dinner was long over, and the family was getting ready for bed. He'd completed a few post-meal tasks Mr. Carson had asked of him, and now sat in companionable silence with Daisy, who was across the table and several seats down from him. She was working on a history lesson, her face creased in concentration. She was quite bright, actually. 'Twas a pity no one had encouraged her until now to chase that intelligence, to feed it, with words and essays, figures and equations. Miss Bunting, for all of her foibles and intentional missteps in this house, especially upstairs, had really championed the young woman's learning.

"Mr. Molesley? If yeh don't mind, could you look this over, quick-like, for me? I appreciate it," Daisy shyly handed over two closely-written sheets and sat down beside him.

"Certainly, Daisy," he closed his ledger, and took her essay in hand, marking certain sentences with suggested changes. The young woman was watching him closely. Her writing was generally very competent, and well done. However –

"See here, Daisy," he pointed out the few edits he'd made. "Your _idea_ is clearly expressed, here, and down here; but you want to retain the formality of the written word. If you were, say, explaining this aloud to someone, it's a perfectly acceptably turn of phrase. However, when _writing_ the same idea, you may want to shift your expression to something more…academic. Otherwise, good on you, well done." He smiled encouragingly at her.

"Thank you ever so much, Mr. Molesley," the young cook breathed. "I understand what you mean. I'll make these changes tomorrow. I best be off to bed, before Mrs. Patmore comes a'lookin' for me." She hurried out, grasping the sheets of paper tightly, passing Phyllis Baxter, who was standing in the doorway, with a smile and a nod.

She had clearly been there for several moments, but neither he nor Daisy, taken up in the essay corrections, had noticed her until now. There was an unreadable expression on her face. No; that wasn't quite true, was it? He could read it just fine, as easily as he had read Daisy's essay. It was just that her admiration _still_ seemed to surprise him, after being on the receiving end of it for a few years now, at least. He wasn't sure if he would ever get used to it. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to.

She sat across from him, placing the teacups she'd brought in front of each of them. Parts of him desperately wished she'd taken the seat that Daisy had just vacated, directly next him. The rest of him, however, was grateful she hadn't. He'd not have been able to get one word of sense out himself if she had.

"It's quite lovely, to see you helping Daisy with her studies," she finally spoke, passing the scrap of paper with The Phoenix's proprietress' suggestions on it over to him. He took it from her, their fingers brushing against each other. At first, when they'd not known each other all that well, he'd chided himself for his reaction to her slightest touch. But now, he felt differently. The casual touches seemed to convey something else, something neither of them was _quite_ ready to put into words.

"She's rather bright, Daisy is," he answered, clearing his throat. He took a sip of tea, then added the names to his list. Quickly calculated the ones he'd culled as their best bets, plus her additions.

"But she's unsure of herself, in some ways," she replied, sipping her own tea. "You share your knowledge with her, certainly, but more importantly, you give her confidence."

He put his pen down, looked across the table at her. "Funny, that – _me_ giving someone confidence," he laughed, shook his head. "I'm no expert on the subject."

She gazed at him for a moment, took a breath, then said, "I'm not sure of that, Mr. Molesley. You're _quite_ confident, it seems to me, in various situations. Helping Daisy with her work, of course. And your plan to exonerate Mr. Bates, even changing it, when necessary, for a greater chance of success."

"But you see, Miss Baxter, I'm not entirely confident the plan _will_ work," he shook his head. He felt tired suddenly, felt all of his fifty-plus years. Sometimes, he wondered how it happened, this half-century of life. And why, so often, he still felt like a hapless lad, despite the years he accumulated.

Phyllis was shaking her head, her mouth turned up in a half-smile. "There's no way to _know,_ of course, Mr. Molesley, but we can't give up," she reached out and took his hand. Squeezed it gently.

She said "we" as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and, to his happy ears, that's how it sounded - completely natural, utterly right. He wasn't used to this feeling, the sense that what he experienced and felt were the same as another person's. The feeling of being _understood._

He sat there for a moment, one hand warmed by his teacup, the other, by Phyllis Baxter's soft palm, gently squeezing. The unsure part of him, the one that still felt like a doltish boy, wanted to pull his hand free, certain that he was misreading her meaning, and not wanting to be duped, not by _her,_ because she would never mislead him, but by his own hopes, his own emotions. Another part of him, one that had always had a very subdued, restrained voice, as if it had no right to be there, inside of him, something deep in the pit of his stomach, imagined dragging her across the table, into his arms, kissing her, in the low light of the servants' hall. That part of him wanted to answer the Morse code her fingers were pressing into his hand.

He looked down at his new list, a plan of his and her making. _Their_ making. And when he glanced back up at her, He thought of a third course of action: he gripped her hand tightly, met the pressure of her fingers. Her smile widened, just a little, rested on their joined fingers.

"What's the itinerary for our next trip then, Mr. Molesley?"

He smiled back at her. Squeezed her fingers a little. Looked down at his list, with confidence.

"Well, Miss Baxter, I was thinking, first we'll visit…"


	5. The Gryffon & the Maid

**Chapter 5 – The Gryffon and the Maid**

They sat across from each other on the tram car in easy silence, watching the countryside roll past. Joseph had a parcel wrapped in brown paper perched on his knee, a gift for his father: tulip bulbs from an acquaintance in York, who'd met them at their final stop of the afternoon, The Black Swan.

The man, whose name had been James Wilson, had been congenial and unassuming, passing a quarter of an hour with them in easy conversation before draining his half-pint, clapping Joseph on the back and pocketing the bills he'd handed over for the plants. How happy Mr. Molesley seemed to be, that he'd found them for his father.

Phyllis had sat there, unwilling to acknowledge, even to herself, her irritation at the man's presence, with having to share Mr. Molesley's attention on a day she'd assumed she'd have it all to herself. _Be careful,_ she thought now, shaking her head a little. _Be careful, and be easy, nothing has been promised here. Don't start acting like a jealous wife…_ she felt her cheeks go quickly hot and cold, then hot again, at the thought. The very _idea_ of herself as wife! As a woman that any respectable man would agree to marry!

 _Then why did you think it? If it's not possible? Perhaps it is…perhaps, you've forgiven yourself, whilst you weren't paying attention…_

She made a little sound, close to a sigh.

"Alright, Miss Baxter?"

"Yes, quite, Mr. Molesley," she shook her head. "I suppose I was thinking how happy your father will be, to receive those," she gestured to the parcel.

"He will, indeed," he gripped the package a little more tightly, cleared his throat. "I was wondering...if it wasn't too much trouble, Miss Baxter, would you mind the delay, if I brought these to him, on our way back to Downton? He's not too far from the square, a few blocks from the hospital. It shouldn't take long."

She waited a moment before she answered. She had met his father, of course, at various village events, to nod and say hello, but had never been to his house, the place that Joseph Molesley had called home as a boy and a young man, until he'd gone into service.

How could she resist such an opportunity?

"Certainly, Mr. Molesley. I would be delighted to," she settled back, eager to be in Downton Village.

oooOOOooo

The elder Mr. Molesley greeted them with warmth, enthusiasm and – it was on his face and gone, in an instant, but she, who was used to observing people, saw it – surprise. The third emotion was entirely due to her presence, as she knew Joseph visited his father regularly.

Once they removed their coats and hats, the father pulled the son down into a warm embrace, patting his cheek lovingly. Joseph reddened at his father's affection, but Phyllis envied him; her childhood had been nearly bereft of anything resembling a doting adult. She had been tolerated, mostly, with only a few exceptions.

"And, Miss Baxter, it's lovely to see you," the older man took her hand in his, grasped it tightly. "Joe, you ought to bring her 'round more, she brightens the place up." The man's eyes were sparkling with mischief.

"You're not wrong, Dad," Joseph answered. His cheeks were still pink.

"Well, come on then, I'm in the middle of tea, but I'm certain I can rustle something up for the pair of you." He headed into the small front room, where a pot of tea, scones and a sandwich sat on the table. "Mrs. Swift just left, she always makes sure I'm settled in for the afternoon before going. You'll not be able to stay for dinner, will you, the pair of you? She's left a nice lamb stew, I think, and fresh bread."

Before they could properly answer him, he had headed towards the kitchen.

"Should I help?" She asked.

"Nah, Dad's alright, he'll be back before you know it, Miss Baxter." The mild exasperation mixed well with the love for his father she heard in his voice squeezed at her heart. She looked around the tidy, pleasant room, simple but well-cared for. Most notable were several tall vases filled with holly branches and evergreen boughs, arranged with Mr. Moseley's typical attention to flora.

She moved towards the mantle, where family photos were arranged. The first to catch her eye was of a woman, taken at least thirty years ago, based on the style of her clothing and hair. It was also impossible not to see Joseph's features stamped clearly on her, or rather, _her_ features on her son's face.

He was standing next to her, quite close. Closer than he would if they were at Downton, not as close as if her arm was through his, walking on the street. It _felt_ closer, more intimate, for some reason though. Perhaps, because she could feel the warmth of his body, without their coats between them. She could smell his shaving cream, feel him breathing lightly.

"That's Mum," he finally spoke. She glanced sideway at him, saw him grinning a little at the photo. "As if it were a question. I'm the spit of her, aren't I, Miss Baxter?"

"Indeed you are, Mr. Molesley," she turned towards him slightly.

"She died a few years after that was taken, actually," his forehead crinkled a little. "Over thirty years ago, now, but it doesn't _feel_ so long ago, not at all. Except…while I remember so much about her, I can't really, not quite, remember the way she sounded, not anymore." He reached his fingers out and rested them on the glass protecting his mother's image.

"That's a nice one of my Janie, isn't it, Miss Baxter?"

They both started a bit, turned towards the sound of the elder Mr. Molesley's voice. He'd supplemented the tea and edibles on the table and was moving towards them. Reached up and brought another photo down.

"Now, Miss Baxter, _this_ is a fine family photo, look here," he handed it to her. The parents and son, standing together solemnly, perhaps the barest hint of a smile on Jane Molesley's face. Joseph was gangly and young, no more than fifteen, with a shocking amount of hair on his head. He was flanked by his parents and grasping a framed certificate of some sort.

"This, Miss Baxter, was a fine day for our lad Joe here," he grinned over at his son, though the day was nearly forty years ago. The pride father had for son filled her heart.

"Dad," Joseph began. "I'm not sure that Miss Baxter wants to hear –"

She didn't think, she just reacted. She reached out, squeezed his hand, then dropped it quickly. His father noticed, though, and smiled a little at the gesture.

"I _do_ want to hear, Mr. Molesley, tell me, please," she didn't look at the son, not now, though she could feel him, with every bit of her body, standing next to her. She focused on the father.

"Well, you see, Miss Baxter - Joe, along with all of the other students in the school, was tasked with writing a story, with certain guidelines and requirements. And Joe here, he won an award for his tale, the very best of all of them," he looked at his son, then placed the photo back on the mantle. "His mum and I, we were just tickled by it. A mind on him, like no other, our Joe." He cleared his throat, and clapped his hands together. "Well, now, you best sit down and have your tea, won't you? Even if I can't convince you to stay for dinner?"

"Dad, before I forget – I've something for you," Joseph seemed to pull himself out of a reverie, and she saw him reach for the parcel with the plant bulbs.

"What're they, Joe?" His father took the package, gripped it, smiled. "Bulbs…?"

"Tulips, Dad, from Jamie Wilson," his son replied, grinning again. "He claims a few are bright red, with white stripes, the others orange. But I suppose we'll not know until spring, then."

"Sometimes, waiting's hard, but worth it, in the end," his gaze bounced between the two younger people. "If you'll excuse me for a moment, I'm going to put these somewhere safe. And I am going to get that essay Joe wrote, so you can read it for yourself, Miss Baxter." He disappeared, leaving them seated next to each other on the loveseat.

"You don't have to read it, you know, Miss Baxter." He sipped his tea, carefully not looking at her.

"I'd like to, if you don't mind it, Mr. Molesley," she kept her gaze steady on him, until he met it.

He shook, his head, put his cup down. "No, I don't mind it, Miss Baxter. I…" He trailed off, and was silent long enough she wasn't sure he was going to finish. "I could have gone to college, to university, I think. That's not right – I _know_ I could have. But…I didn't. Right after that photo was taken, after I won that award…well, the flu happened, didn't it? And Dad got it, badly. He recovered, but he…he wasn't all the way better, not for a long time. He couldn't work his job with the post office, not the way he used to. And I started working in service, to help out, and I was rather good at it…" His voice faded again, and he shrugged.

"Go on. I'm listening, Mr. Molesley," she folded her hands, lacing her fingers through each other. The urge to reach out and stroke his face was almost irresistible.

He sighed. "Then it seemed, as soon as Dad got well and truly better, Mum got sick," he finally finished. "She got sick, and then she died. And me and Dad, we had to carry on, didn't we?"

"It's perfectly understandable, Mr. Molesley, why you didn't go on with your studies," she knew what he was doing. She'd done it herself, so often, it was just a different verse of a song she knew too well.

"Is it, though? I've told myself, for years, Miss Baxter, that I was being the dutiful son, doing the right thing for my parents, bless them," he paused, drew himself up, and looked her right in the eye. "But what really happened…is nothing. I didn't make a choice. I just sort of drifted…into this life. There's nothing noble about it, I'm afraid."

It was at that moment that the elder Mr. Molesley returned, a small stack of paper, yellowed at the edges, in hand.

"I've found it!" He waved it over his head, triumphantly, as the other two returned to their tea, forcing it down around the unsaid words waiting in the back of their throats.

oooOOOooo

The walk back to Downton was quiet, even for them. They'd stayed for stew with Mr. Molesley, and the conversation had flowed easily, companionably, as they both chose to ignore his confession prior to his father's return with the story, and because his father's delight in having them there was so obvious.

However, the minute they reached the outskirts of the village, heading along the straight footpath back to the grand house, a silence fell over them. She took his arm again, but the feeling lingered; that they hadn't really finished their conversation from earlier. She wasn't sure she was brave enough to bring it up, however. She thought hard for a moment, sorting out the best way to approach it.

"Mr. Molesley?"

"Yes, Miss Baxter?"

"Might I read that story of yours, then, when we get back to Downton? Since your father took the trouble to find it?"

He stopped, took it out of his inner coat pocket, where it had been loosely folded. She glanced down at the title page, writing in his schoolboy script. "The Gryffon & The Maid."

"It's not too late, you know," she spit the words out before she could change her mind.

"Miss Baxter?"

"You…said you drifted, into this life. You're life isn't over, though, Mr. Molesley," she stated, looking at him in the darkening evening. Her heart was pounding in her chest, sending sharp pulses up her neck.

"Not exactly, Miss Baxter, but, at my age is there –"

She interrupted him, she was so eager to speak. He inspired that in her, sometimes. Made her want to assert his value, his worth, because he was so frequently minimizing it. She wasn't impulsive by nature, no. Peter had encouraged it, yes, but his encouragement had been focused on dimly-lit _rendezvous_ in the tack room or quick assessments of her mistress' jewelry collection.

This was entirely different. This came from _her_.

"At your age, Mr. Molesley, you're trying to save a man's life. At your age, Mr. Molesley, you're helping a young woman consider a life out of service, by helping her with her studies. At you're age, Mr. Molesley, you're a thoughtful, considerate son, who goes out of his way to please his father. At your age, Mr. Molesley, you make me –"

She abruptly closed her lips around her words. Even if she wanted to say more, she wasn't ready.

He looked at her for what seemed a long time, and she gripped the story he and written as a schoolboy in her hands. She met his gaze and noticed something shift in his expression. Something that had been soft, and hazy, seemed to sharpen in his eyes, in the folds of his forehead. Finally, he held his arm out to her, and she took it. They began walking again.

"We best get back, before it gets too late," she finally said. Her voice sounded like her own now, calm and quiet.

"You've just reminded me, Miss Baxter – it isn't too late."


	6. The Two-Necked Swan

**Chapter 6 - The Two-Necked Swan**

 **A/N: I want to, again, express my thanks to all of my readers and reviewers. I wasn't sure if I had "enough" about this pair to get a solid story out, but it keeps coming, and I keep being inspired. And for my Chelsie peeps, I've not dropped that thread. It just seems I need to follow THIS one to the end of it. I think there's three, maybe four, more chapters to this story.**

 **Pub names** **: Almost all of them are actual pub names (or slight variations thereof), many of them pubs in York (thank you, Google). I got fascinated by them and decided they needed to feature, and perhaps, drive this little story a bit.**

 **Thanks, as always, for reading. ~CeeCee**

He was on his own for the first time since he'd begun the search, and he felt it completely. The wind bit harder at his cheeks, the snow on the ground seemed dingier, and the pubs along the way less welcoming. Which he knew, of course, was ridiculous. He simply missed his traveling companion.

Phyllis Baxter was back at Downton, out of both obligation and necessity: her ladyship had needed the bodice of a dress beaded by hand, and her lady's maid was also nursing a bad cold. He had bid farewell to her in the servants' hall after breakfast, her head bent over the slippery, rich aubergine fabric, the rims of her eyes and nose a bright, irritated red.

She'd looked quite beautiful, he'd thought.

 _"I'm sorry to not be joining you today, Mr. Molesley," her gentle voice was serrated around the edges, huskier than usual._

 _He'd placed the cup of coffee, milk no sugar, in front of her, keeping it well away from the expensive dress. Daisy had added a few shortbread cookies to the saucer before she'd handed it off to him with a smile._

 _"I'm sorry, too, Miss Baxter, but duty and health first, that's wisest," he was standing at her elbow and she was looking up at him with her steady gaze. Staff members were heading in and out, some pausing for their own tea or coffee, but somehow, it felt as if they were on their own, in a small bubble of peace. Not even Thomas Barrow's knowing glance could burst it._

 _"Won't be the same without you. I'll miss you, for certain," the words left his mouth before he could account for them, and he couldn't quite look at her after he said them. He pushed his cap firmly onto his head, and left without another word._

Now it was snowing again, the grey clouds stacked on top of each other in the sky. The only positive he could find in the day without his searching partner was that he'd no desire to linger over a half-pint or a cup of tea once he realized a place was a dead end. He'd covered a lot of ground today, he knew.

He looked up at his next stop: The Two-Necked Swan. Someone had sketched and painted a rough but competent enough image of the pub's namesake on the side of the building. The bird wasn't simply two-necked; it was two-headed, like a graceful variation on Cerberus, the hellhound, its two necks bent towards each other to form a heart.

He went in, mulling over the rather unusual image. He took a small table in the corner, his grumbling stomach insisting that he eat lunch at last, despite the lack of charming dining companion. The server came over, and he ordered a sandwich and a half-pint, while showing John Bates' photo to him. The man shook his head, but took the photo to show the barkeep. Joe took out his ledger and crossed off the last place he'd visited today, The Snooty Fox. If there was no joy here, he'd have taken an even dozen pubs off the list. He was pondering heading back to Downton earlier than usual, to see how Miss Baxter was faring, when a cheerful voice interrupted his reverie.

"Joe! Are you visiting every pub in York, then?"

It was Jamie Wilson, his old schoolmate who'd sold him the tulip bulbs for his father. They'd been rather close as boys, the Wilsons living only a few doors down from the Molesleys when both boys were young. His friend hadn't been as clever at his lessons as Joseph had been, but still keen and ready to learn, and encouraged by his parents as the eldest and the only boy in the family. In contrast to Joe, a rare only child, Jamie had four sisters following after him.

"Jamie, good to see you. Care to join me?" He held out his hand, and they shook heartily. The other man sat and ordered himself a pint when the waiter returned with Joseph's lunch, returning the valet's photo with a shake of his head. Jamie's eyes were inquiring, but Joe stayed silent. He didn't want to get into his search with anyone, outside of Miss Baxter.

"Well, then, back in York again on your day off, Joe?"

"Indeed, Jamie I am," he paused, took a bite of his sandwich. He realized suddenly how hungry he was, and how foolish he'd been to put off eating simply because Miss Baxter wasn't there to share the meal with him. He looked across the small table at his old friend. At fifty, they knew each other far less than they had at twenty-five, and lesser still then they had at ten. But Jamie was familiar, and solid, so he added, "I can't quite get into the details now, but I can promise you this – if it sorts out the way I hope it will, I'll come to York just to buy you pint and tell you all about it."

"I won't press you about it then," Jamie sipped his ale, nodded a little, but his expression held a bit of mischief. "But has it anything to do with your rather fine companion, from the last time we met?"

Joe felt himself redden immediately, but examined the other man's face closely, finding only curiosity and a polite sort of kindness there. Jamie had started working for the railroads after his da' died suddenly when they were eleven or twelve, never returning to formal education once his mother and sisters became his sole responsibility, though Joe knew, much like himself, he'd never stopped self-educating.

Now, he was the father of three, and grandfather of five, possibly six; Joe had lost count. He'd married Elizabeth Smith, "Bessie" they'd called her in school, oh, thirty or so years ago, and he always spoke of his wife with a simple, easy mixture of fondness and irritation that Joe couldn't entirely comprehend.

"Miss Baxter? Nah, it's nothing to do with her," he stopped again, considering how much to say. He wasn't entirely used to having a confidante. Well, he wasn't entirely used to have a confidante to whom he could speak freely to _about Phyllis Baxter_. A nervous sound similar to a chuckle escaped him, but he pressed on, "She got wind of what I was doing, is all, and wanted to help. It's her nature, you see. She's quite kind, good-hearted."

"I _do_ see," Jamie replied, and ordered another round of half-pints from the server. "She's a lady's maid, then, right? What's her given name? I've forgotten it."

"Yes, we work together at Downton, and yes, she's a lady's maid for the Countess. She's rather brilliant at sewing, you should have seen what she was about this morning before I left for the station, putting all these tiny beads all over this dress, and what have you, I don't quite understand how she does it –"

"Her name then, Joe?" Jamie was opening laughing now, but it wasn't unkindly.

"Phyllis," he replied, the word like a warm wind on this frigid day.

"Ah, yes, sweet Phyllis," Jamie replied, still smiling. He was looking at a mural on the far wall, a downsized version of the swan outside the pub. This version of the swan had the heads facing away from each other, the necks intertwined. "Always thought it was rather a daft name for a pub, myself, but I like it here, anyways. Someone explained it to me once, the meaning, something to do with a funny turn of phrase, 'nick' and 'neck' and marking swans for the king, back in the old days. But I see something else, you know?"

"What's that?" Joseph was glad that they had moved away from discussing Phyllis Baxter. He'd felt perilously close to saying, out loud, how he felt about her. It seemed safer not to speak of it, not yet. Maybe not ever. It was one thing to admire her, and he did, greatly. But he was also relatively certain he loved her, too, because her confession about her theft, her time in prison, and that man, that Coyle, and what she'd done with and for him, hadn't made him want to walk away from her, or lessened how he felt about her. No, it seemed to focus it, into something better. _Stronger._

And now Jamie turned back to face him. "Well, outside, the giant picture on the side of the place? They're lovey-dovey, right? In here, they're not even lookin' at each other. But they're connected, they're stuck with each other. Bit like marriage, that. Bit like love, too." He drained his beer, and set a handful of coins on the table between them. Clapped Joe on the shoulder, as he had the last time they'd seen each other, but it was warmer, more familiar.

"I'm holding you to it, then, Joe. Once you solve whatever you're trying to, you come back here, to the Two-Necked Swan, and you tell me all about it. Bring sweet Phyllis Baxter, while you're at it, you hear?" He shrugged into his coat, fixed his cap to his head. "I'll give Bess your regards, won't I?"

"Right, then," Joe replied, nodding goodbye to his friend, feeling slightly dazed. He sipped his beer, gazed at the image of the swans. Phyllis Baxter was miles away, her lovely head bent over her intricate work, likely stopping often to sip tea and rub her tired eyes.

But she was also here, really, the whole time. He shook his head, laughed a little again. Funny, he didn't miss her so much, not anymore. He'd taken her with him, regardless.


	7. Her Own

**Chapter 7 – Her Own**

Phyllis Baxter knew what it was to be someone's object.

To be owned by someone, to _owe_ someone.

As she sat in the now-quiet servants' hall, after the breakfast rush, musing on what pub Joseph Molesley might now be entering, and what he might find there, without her, she considered the people she had been beholden too, the people whose grasps she had allowed herself to be squeezed by.

Peter Coyle had been, yes, the cruelest, of them, but by no means had been the first. She understood at a young age that her value in the cramped flat on a noisy, working-class London side street was measured primarily by how many screaming younger siblings she could quell at once or how fast she could run to the corner for another bottle of liquor, it's dark amber color inviting, it's smoky fumes daunting, and return it to her father without getting a wallop. It was terrifying and impressive how much of it her Da' could drink and still navigate the stairs and street beyond, on his way to the mill, without tumbling over.

Her mother had drifted through each day, vague and always slightly smiling, regardless of what was happening around her. Phyllis occasionally wondered if one of her father's unpredictable smacks to her mother's head had scrambled her brain permanently. Everything that happened in their dingy-but-desperately-trying-for-more four-room flat had been determined at her father's whim.

He had been the first to own her.

And there had been others, through the first two or three decades of her life, as she clawed her way out of that crowded street, she and Franny Barrow both. They'd found each other in school, in the early days, both girls with a pair of plaits over their shoulders, Phyllis' soft, dark brown, Franny's jet-black. The Barrows lived three doors down from the Baxters, and she would stop there often for tea after school. The Barrows were calmer, kinder, Franny's mother more _there_ than her own.

Most importantly, there were only four Barrows, the smallest being the one to win Phyllis' heart instantly, though she was fiercely devoted to Franny as well. One of the first afternoons Phyllis headed eagerly up the stairs of to a flat as shabby as her own, but far better cared-for, breathing in the smell of delicious food cooking. Mrs. Barrow had greeted her daughter warmly, with a kiss on her head, and grinned broadly at Phyllis.

"Franny, love, go grab Tommy, will ya?"

"Yes, Mum," her friend had dashed to the next room, where the cooing and bleating nonsense talk of a tot were emanating. And came back carrying the most beautiful child Phyllis had seen in her ten years of life.

"Aren't you a one?" She breathed as her friend passed her little brother to Phyllis' outstretched arms. Thomas Barrow, aged two, reached out, petted one of her braids.

"Who dis?" He said, goggling at his sister and mother. The three of them burst out laughing, much to the baby's consternation. After a long moment, he decided to join them, chuffing sweetly.

And that was how Phyllis met the last person who would ever own her.

It was hard to imagine it, but thirty-five years after meeting Thomas Barrow, he would own her. She let it happen though; she was fully aware of herself, and her mistakes. She had escaped their street, along with Franny (though her friend wasn't running from nearly as much as she herself had been), by going to school until it had become impossible, and by falling in love with sewing; step by step, that skill had carried her to her penultimate job as a lady's maid, working with Peter Coyle.

And when the twisted pieces of who she had been wound up in a prison cell, she had simply focused on getting through each day, one by one, all of them, over a thousand of them, in all. One matron spoke to another who mentioned to someone else that Phyllis was good with a needle, even better if she had a machine.

And one evening, about two months before her scheduled release, that matron, Mrs. White had been her name, stood outside her cell.

"Baxter," the woman's voice was harsh and hoarse from overuse.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You're getting out of 'ere in a few. What're your plans?"

"I'm not entirely sure, ma'am," she shook her head. She had just begun thinking of life outside of this place, but didn't want to believe it. Not yet. "I'll never get hired in a big house again, I suppose, but I'm good with a needle and thread. It's a valuable skill to have."

"That it is, Baxter. And I've got friends in places that could use a talented seamstress. Think on it, and let me know if you want ol' Mrs. White to help you out." And she had lumbered away, a tall, solidly built woman casting a long shadow in her wake.

 _She wants to own you. Nothing is free. Never._

Not a week later, she'd gotten a letter that had shocked the breath out of her for a few moments: Tommy Barrow had heard from his sister (Franny now lived in West Sussex, married to a railroad man, and three children of her own) and wanted to help her, if he could.

He was the under butler at a grand and beautiful house, he wrote.

He was well-liked and well-respected there, he wrote.

The lady of the house, a Countess, of all things, was in need of a fine, new lady's maid, he wrote.

He would arrange everything, he wrote.

Phyllis thought long and hard that night. The last time she'd seen her friend's younger brother had twenty-five years ago, when the sweet-faced baby she'd met was a sullen young man, newly wary of his father, who would declare to all and sundry "There's something not quite right with our Tommy".

In the end, she had said yes, though she knew, deep down, she would be beholden to him in some way, likely in a way she couldn't fathom. But the allure of working in a grand house again, one far, far grander than she'd ever considered, twinkled like a glimmer of hope in her shadowed surroundings.

She had two choices: be owned again, by someone, or try and make it on her own. She simply wasn't strong enough for the latter.

oooOOOooo

And she had arrived at Downton and nearly fallen over when she first saw Tommy, now Mr. Barrow: so grown, so formal, so handsome, and so, so haunted. Whatever had not been quite right all those years ago was now very, very wrong, though Phyllis didn't feel she was on the same side of it as his father had been.

She had been his creature, oh she had, for a long while after she arrived. Until…until Joseph Molesley had shown her, had encouraged her: she _could_ be strong.

And she tried it out. And it _worked._

Then, after time passed, she realized Thomas Barrow didn't own her anymore, she wasn't a pawn in the sad game he was playing with the world, no; in fact, by the time she realized what he'd been doing himself and gotten him to Dr. Clarkson, she understood they were friends, or nearly so.

He'd called her daft, looked at her sideways. And she caught a glimpse of the boy he'd been.

Now his dashing figure was in the doorway, two cups of tea in hand.

"Mind if I join you, Miss Baxter? You're all on your own this morning," he said, and there _was_ a slight sneer in his tone, but it felt rote, not genuine. As if he had a reputation to maintain, if only with himself.

 _Not at all, Tommy. You're just a paper tiger, after all. One who needs tending to, I think, before he tears beyond repair._

"Please do, Mr. Barrow. That would be lovely."

She knew she'd never be anyone's pawn again.

oooOOOooo

Much later, she returned downstairs, after helping her ladyship to bed. She'd seen Mr. Molesley come in a few hours before, after the servants' dinner, and head upstairs to the men's living quarters to change. He'd caught her eye, smiled. Her heart lifted a little, and she gave him an inquiring look. He shook his head. He'd not found the place, then. Something small and ungenerous inside of her clamored with happiness. They'd have next week then, and the one after, before the holiday celebration and preparations made it impossible for them to take any time off.

She was hoping to catch him in the servants' hall, if only to say goodnight; she still wasn't feeling her best self, and she knew if she hoped to be on the mend, she needed rest. She was so certain he'd be there, sitting at the table, waiting for her, she made a small sound when he came out of the silver room and nearly ran her down.

"Miss Baxter! I'm terribly sorry," he reached out to steady her with one warm hand, smelling strongly of polish, grasping her upper arm. "Silly me, I wasn't paying any attention at all. Wrapped up in my own thoughts, I guess."

"It's alright, Mr. Molesley," she replied steadily, still very aware they were standing close together in the doorway of the silver room, and his fingers pressed into her skin, through her dress. "So, no success today, then?"

"Unfortunately, no, though I was able to visit a dozen or so places," he answered, finally letting go of her arm.

"Well done, you!"

"I was rather caught up in the search, I suppose, so much so I hadn't stopped for lunch, and lunch became dinner. I ran into my friend, Jamie Wilson, at my last stop. He joined me for a pint," he smiled, but she noticed he flushed a little at the mention of his friend. "He asked after you."

She swallowed down the airy, happy feeling this gave her. "Did he? He seemed a kind person, finding those bulbs for your father."

"He's a good man, Jamie. We were at school together, until he had to leave after his dad passed. Us and his wife, Bessie. They've been married, oh, almost thirty years now. Hard to imagine that…" he drifted off, looking over her shoulder.

She thought of the beautiful toddler Thomas Barrow had been, the shadowed man he'd become. "Time passes so quickly, doesn't it?"

"And people change," he sighed.

"Yes, and sometimes, they don't," she answered. "Not completely."

His brow furrowed, and he studied her for a long enough moment she felt herself growing warm. She saw no judgement in his eyes, only kindness and curiosity and admiration and friendship and…but she couldn't contemplate more than these things, not right now.

Finally, he spoke. "Is that a good or bad thing, do you think?"

His face was so earnest and honest, laughter bubbled up and spilled out of her mouth before she could account for it. "I'm not entirely sure, Mr. Molesley. It likely depends on where a person starts out, I suppose."

He thought about that, staring once again over her shoulder, then catching her gaze after a long moment.

"I like to think it can be a good thing, personally, if the change is your own. If you make the change, I mean," he finished, then cleared his throat. "I hope you're feeling better, Miss Baxter, and that you can join me again next week. It wasn't the same without you." His face was steadfast. And bright red.

"I can't imagine missing another week, Mr. Molesley," she backed up a little, readying herself to go up to bed, and mostly, to avoid planting a kiss on his cheek. "And, I believe you're right; change is good, if it comes from inside yourself. And with the help of friends."

She turned, heading towards the stairs, feeling his warm gaze following her.


	8. The Pickerel Inn

Chapter 8 - The Pickerel Inn

 **A/N: There's really nothing like working with together with someone else to get something done, especially something GOOD. You might even lose yourself, for a moment, in that burst of victory.**

 **~CeeCee**

It was cold and overcast, the wind nipping angrily at all of the places his skin was exposed: his cheeks, his neck, and his ears, though his cap and scarf provided some protection. He hardly cared; he turned and grinned at Phyllis Baxter, whose cheeks were rosy and whose hair, mostly tucked up in her own hat, had escaped in tiny loops and waves around her face, tugged by the frigid gusts of air.

They'd passed most of the day in an easy, happy companionship that delighted and startled them both. It was as if they'd forgotten, in the course of one week, how much they enjoyed these jaunts to York, though the reason was rather serious. A man's life was at stake, yes, but something else was happening...

 _He loved her._ _He was in love with Phyllis Baxter._

Odd, that. No, no, not odd that he cared deeply for her, or admired her, or found her lovely and beautiful and kind. No. It was...something else. He had admired and liked women before he'd met Phyllis Baxter; certainly, he had. But...there had always been this...this bubble around them, something he could not penetrate. He had been like a boy walking past a shop with a shining new bike in the window; something he wanted, desired, thought he understood the mechanics of, but couldn't...quite reach.

He couldn't help, these past few weeks, recalling, over a decade ago, his such fondness for Anna Bates herself, Smith, she was then. He had been infatuated, yes, by the head housemaid in those days, by her pretty, sweet face and nature, her kindness, her intelligence. But he'd not _really_ understood what love was, what being in love was, had he?

Love had blurry lines, lines that flowed in both directions, between two people. It was understanding, and frustration, and embracing imperfections, both real and perceived. It was a sense that the invisible barrier around someone had been pierced by him, and him alone; that he had been invited in, and wasn't on the wrong side of the glass, not anymore.

"Where to, then, Mr. Molesley?" She smiled at him, that slow grin of hers, and he knew he'd been staring just a little too long.

"I do believe we ought to stop for lunch, Miss Baxter, if only to warm ourselves," he paused, pulled out his list. They'd been to four places already today without success, but there were always other prospects on his seemingly endless list. "How about The Pickerel Inn? It's just up the road a bit, and it's one of the suggestions you got from the proprietress at The Golden Phoenix. It'll likely be a cozy spot."

"It's a plan, then," she squeezed his arm a little, and they set off.

oooOOOooo

"Nay, I've not seen this fella, but Ol' Will may have," their server shook his head as he set their food in front of them, but nodded over at a large man in his early sixties behind the bar. "I'll take yer photo up with me, then, give him a show?" They agreed, and reminded him of the date Mr. Bates would have stopped in, his general demeanor.

"This is a cozy spot," Miss Baxter glanced around, smiling gently. "I can see why the woman at The Golden Phoenix thought of it for us." She paused, spooning up some soup. "Though I am still dreaming about her brown bread." She laughed a little, and he replied with a smile, thinking...

"Pardon me, folks," they were both startled by the sudden presence of the imposing man from behind the bar, Ol' Will, their server had called him. "Fred said you were askin' about this man here, was he in a few months back."

"We were," Joe's heart sped up, pounding fiercely. He glanced over at Phyllis. She had an unreadable expression on her face.

"He was here, on the day ye asked about," he poked his finger at John Bates' solemn portrait.

"Was he?" He heard his voice, which sounded tight and high in his chest. It was being squeezed by hope. By excitement.

"Yeh, he was," Ol' Will replied, grinning at them a little, his face mildly bemused. "I remember the day, cos it's the day after me missus' birthday. Yeh don't want to be forgettin' a date like that, am I right, mate?" His grin broadened, and he rolled his eyes at Joe, gesturing to Phyllis. "Does best to keep the ladies happy, does it not?"

"Thank you, sir," Phyllis finally spoke. He was glad, as he seemed to have lost all of his ability to converse. "Can you tell us a little more, what you remember?"

"Sure I can," the man leaned his meaty, hairy forearms on their table. "He came in 'round noontime, with a face like a bear lookin' for a fight. Sat on his own, right over yonder. Got tetchy with me when I asked if he wanted a hand, given his limp," Will shook his head, grinned. "Became a right gentleman when I showed him my own war wound," he pushed up the left sleeve of his shirt, revealing a long twist of lumpy scar tissue. "Turns out, we were both in the Boers, and got -"

"Yes! Yes, that's him!" Both he and Phyllis interjected excitedly. She grinned broadly over at him, reached out and squeezed his hand. He felt warm, then numb, then warm again. His head was buzzing, tingling, pleasantly with the feeling of victory, the feeling of her hand in his.

The barkeep smiled indulgently at both of them, not entirely sure why they were so excited, but seemingly please to have given them what they were looking for. They quickly explained what they needed as they finished their lunch in great, harried gulps. The urge to get back to Downton, to share their good news, at last, was powerful.

"So you see, Mr. Wright, if you can be Mr. Bates' alibi, attest that he was here...you'll be saving his life, and his wife's," Joe shrugged, still unable to stop smiling.

"A'course I will," the man grinned back at them, shook his head. "I'll never. I'll have to thank my Nellie for being born the day she was, or I never woulda remembered that date." He chuckled, pushed his graying hair away from his face. "Life is funny, ain't it? Never woulda guessed I'd help a man beat a murder charge." He glanced between the two of them for a moment, and his smile changed a little, became more thoughtful. "Though, it's not really down to me, I suppose, but the pair'a you. Lunch is on me today, you two." He cleared their table, and they both followed his progress back to the bar, weaving through the busy lunch crowd.

He looked down at William Wright's information, and the brief statement he wrote in Joe's leather-bound ledger. He flipped between the man's writing and the rest of the pubs, never to be visited.

"That's that, then," he finally said, looking up to meet Phyllis' gaze.

"You did it, Mr. Molesley," she said softly.

"Not at all, Miss Baxter," he shook his head. " _We_ did it."

oooOOOooo

"The Pickerel Inn," he sighed. They were standing on the street, in front of the place, grinning up at the carved wooden sign depicting the long fish. "At long last, we found you."

She grinned up at it with him, and he looked over at her upturned profile. She was really _so_ lovely, especially when she smiled completely, so that it reached her eyes. She caught him looking.

"How many pub signs have we gazed at, Mr. Molesley, over the past few weeks?" She laughed, and it was a loose, happy sound. Bolder than usual.

"I've got the tally in my ledger, Miss Baxter..." he reached for it, but her laughter rolled out, down the blustery street.

"I don't need an exact count, Mr. Molesley," her face was open and happy and triumphant. "I've been to more pubs in the past few months than I've been to in my life up until then. And it doesn't really matter, how many, does it? We found the right one, in the end."

"We did, didn't we? And in time for the holidays, let's hope," he grinned again up at the sign, then at her. Thought of how the tip had come from the woman at The Golden Phoenix, the bird that rose from the ashes, new and beautiful. And something seemed to move through him, an unencumbered burst of joy and victory.

He let out a whoop, and startled himself. Joseph Molesley most certainly didn't _whoop_ under usual circumstances. But they had done it, _they had done it,_ the pair of them. Was there a better feel than this, right here, right now?

"We certainly did, Mr. Molesley," she replied, her huge smile splitting her face, her cheeks getting pink, once again, in the cold air.

And he didn't think, for once in his life, he just reach out, through that shimmering bubble around her; whooped once more. Grabbed her 'round her waist, lifted her off her feet, a little. Spun her around in a circle, once, twice, felt her gloved hands around his neck, her warm body, with all of it's unexplored hills and valleys, pressed against his. Felt the warm puffs of air as she, too, let out a triumphant noise, a smattering of laughter.

He set her down, and their laughter tapered off. Her arms were still around his neck. And now he became aware of how close her face was, far closer than it every had been. And her eyes were shining up at him. Everything in him froze, in the moment.

It began to snow.

They stood, very still, and he could hear each of their inhalations, then exhalations, out of sync, at first, then, slowly, each matching the other.

He was waiting, watching her face. She lowered her eyes, at last, her cheeks blooming a deeper, darker pink. She made a small sound, and he understood the moment to act had passed. Something inside of him slumped in relief, something else, clamored hungrily.

Her hands were slipping from around his neck, to his shoulders. Then, before he understood what was happening, her warm, chapped lips were on his cold cheek, lingeringly, and he could feel her sigh, smell the smell of her: coffee, and bergemot and clean linen. Then she let go, stepped back. Stood three feet from him, in the falling snow.

Had he every seen anything more beautiful? He thought not.

"We best get back. Good news shouldn't wait," she finally spoke.

"Indeed, it shouldn't," he cleared his throat, held out his arm. She took it, and they were on their way.


	9. The Jeweled Box

Chapter 9 – The Jeweled Box

 **A/N: Readers, once again, thank you so much for all of the love and reviews as I explore this new (for me) 'ship. I've really had a great time writing about them, and this story likely won't be the last one I do. However...speaking of this story, this is the penultimate chapter. Thanks for taking the ride with me!**

 **~CeeCee**

 **NB #1: And yes, the exchange between Phyllis and Elsie is the same one you read in AHoM. ;-)**

 **NB #2: For my Chelsie loves, I've got a tiny thing I am working on, not to do with Night Moments. Look for it soon.**

After their meeting with Lord Grantham, she wasn't sure she spoke more than three or four words in a row to anyone, for the rest of the afternoon and evening. She didn't _want_ to talk to anyone, not really. She kept burrowing down into herself, remembering the afternoon, the moment she and Joseph Molesley realized that brawny barkeep at The Pickerel could give John Bates an alibi, and _would_ do so.

That moment, outside, in the biting wind, when he yelled out, in happiness, in triumph. When he grabbed her, whirled her around. Oh, how that had made her heart stop, in the moment. Before today, she wasn't sure she could have said, with any certainty, that love was a safe thing. Oh, she wasn't a fool; she saw others, all of the time, falling in love, staying in love.

But it had been so dangerous, so _treacherous_ for her, in the past.

Exciting, yes. Thrilling, even. Oh, but in the end, it was never _safe._ It always left her in pieces.

Except. Except...something had happened, in the past few weeks, maybe even longer; she wasn't entirely sure, not anymore. Her friendship and her attraction towards Joseph Molesley, each which lived securely in its allotted, appropriate place in her heart for the past few years, had expanded, shifted, collided, when he pulled her towards him.

No, that wasn't it, not entirely. She had been in another man's arms before, and it had felt, to her body at least, similar. No, it wasn't the sudden, wanted, physical presence of him. No. It was after that heady few seconds, when they had come to a stop. When she had looked up at him, into his happy, open face.

 _Oh._

She had seen it, in his expression: he wanted to kiss her, yes, and she had wanted him to. She knew what that looked like, on a man's face, but it was something else that had made her break his gaze: she had seen something she couldn't entirely understand, something which shook a small, deep, part inside of her, something that looked and felt like…love.

Phyllis Baxter was decidedly unused to love, with few exceptions. She and Franny had loved each other, yes, and the memory of that love, that bond, still lived within her, though she rarely saw her old school chum these days. She had loved her brothers and sisters, the lot of them, though they were often her burden to bear until they, too, scattered like fall leaves, away from the grimy flat on that cramped London street. She knew less of their lives, now, than she did of Franny's. She had loved Tommy Barrow, tiny, beautiful, sweet boy he had been. She could likely love him again, if he'd ever allow it. She wasn't entirely sure he would.

There…really wasn't anyone else. All of the love she'd had in her life thus far was threadbare and faded, from time or distance or circumstances. She'd never _loved_ Peter Coyle, she could see that now, so very clearly, though at the time it had felt exciting and fresh and thrilling, something she had imagined as love, but what had really been a gaudy imitation.

But it wasn't until that moment, when she'd looked up at Joseph Molesley's face, held his gaze, that she'd realized it: she hadn't entirely understood the nature of love, had she? Not in her forty-plus years of life, though she'd gotten tastes and glimpses of it along the way. What a surprise it had been to her, not only to see it _there_ , in his eyes, but to _feel_ it, blooming languidly in the cavity of her chest. Something that had been furled tightly, just waiting, growing.

It had overwhelmed her, the _largesse_ of it.

She didn't want to deny it, or move completely away from it, no; but she wasn't entirely ready for the message his eyes _and_ his body were sending, together, in harmony. She could hear them, feel them, in herself. They were too loud, too strident, and she needed time to sort through them.

She had broken his gaze, then, let her hands slip down a little. Thinking, thinking. He was a brave man, yes, and a thoughtful and intelligent one; but would he, _could_ he, understand the turmoil that was pulsing through her, in that moment? She _must_ answer his heart, in some way, and her own.

So she had reached up, and pressed her lips against his cheek. Breathing in the smell of him, part of her, wanting to linger long enough that the matter would be taken out of her hands, the rest of her understanding this wasn't _quite_ the time, or _quite_ the place. A sigh, a sound, had escaped her mouth, without warning. She had quickly stepped a safe distance away.

The expression on his face, as it began to snow, was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

oooOOOooo

She replayed the moment over and over again, in her mind, as she headed towards the stairs with the Countess' jewelry box, which contents she'd been sorting and cleaning. She nearly yelped when a kind, no-nonsense voice interrupted her.

"My apologies, Mrs. Hughes. My mind was somewhere else," she gestured to the jewelry box, her voice sounding odd and underused in her ears. "Her ladyship wanted this all cleaned in anticipation for the holidays."

"Not at all, Miss Baxter, carry on," Elsie Hughes, and then reached out, touched Phyllis' wrist. "Mr. Carson's just told me what you and Mr. Molesley have done for Mr. Bates. I must say, Miss Baxter, very little surprises me at my age, and even less in a good way. But your diligence, your kindness, well, it's quite extraordinary, it is."

She felt herself flush. She admired this woman, respected her. She also realized that Elsie Hughes likely saw and knew many, many things others in this house took no notice of. She meant to say no more, but the words tumbled out of her: "It was all Mr. Molesley's idea. It was _his_ kindness, _his_ diligence, Mrs. Hughes. I can only take credit for keeping him company."

"Well, I'm not entirely sure of that, but the _pair_ of you did something quite remarkable," the older woman responded, and Phyllis heard the slight emphasis she placed on the word.

"I thank you for that, Mrs. Hughes. I am only glad that we've been able to be useful, thanks to Mr. Molesley's strength and bravery," she pressed her lips together, hearing the admiration, affection, in her words, knowing full well that Elsie Hughes would hear them as well. It was too new, this realization of love, to share it with anyone else. And, if it was to be shared, it would best be shared with the man himself.

"I've taken up enough of your time, then, Miss Baxter," the housekeeper finally spoke, and Phyllis could see warmth, knowledge, in her eyes. "You best get on with it, then." And she continued on down the hall. Phyllis took a deep breath, shook her head to clear it; headed, again, towards the stairs, to bring her mistress the box full of treasures, freshly gleaming.

She got to the stairs, allowing Andy to pass her in the opposite direction. She was about halfway up when Joseph himself appeared through the door leading to the great hall. He grinned down at her, holding the door open as she reached the landing.

"Thank you, Mr. Molesley," she answered, smiling back at him. She paused, wanting to say something more, to stretch out the moment, the two of them, standing alone together, but not entirely certain what that should be. She clutched the box in her hands tightly, thinking. _A former jewel thief, being trusted to polish her ladyship's jewelry…_ she shook her head. Things had changed. _She_ had changed.

She ducked under his outstretched arm, which was holding the door open for her, and caught his eye.

"What is it, Miss Baxter?" He laughed a little.

"I was just thinking, Mr. Molesley, how sometimes things change, before a person can entirely notice," she laughed, felt her face grow warm again. She proffered the box towards him, grinning. "Me, with her ladyship's jewelry." She shook her head. "Who would have expected it?"

He smiled back at her, but his face became thoughtful, serious. She watched him ponder his words, the look on his face she found so dear.

"She trusts you, Miss Baxter," he finally answered, his voice as even as his gaze. "She has every right to, after all."

"Thank you for saying so, Mr. Molesley," she replied. He didn't hold her past against her. Not any longer. People _could_ change, for the better, it seemed. Feelings could change, grow, blossom…even in the heart of winter.

"I would only ever tell you the truth, Miss Baxter," he voice, still even, grew slightly husky.

"I know," she replied. "See you later, for tea, then? After they're to bed?"

"Perhaps I can rustle up something slightly more celebratory. After dinner, Mr. Carson expressed his appreciation for our efforts, with Mr. Bates," he grinned.

"How lovely, yes," she walked towards the grand staircase, leaving him at the door between upstairs and down. Looked down at the intricate box in her hands, filled to the brim with expensive, glittering baubles.

Thought, as she hurried them up to her mistress, that she'd gained something far more valuable today.

Priceless, in fact.


	10. From the Ashes

**Chapter 10 – From the Ashes**

 **A/N: So this is it, readers! Thank you so, so much for embracing this little Baxley tale of mine. It's great to hear from you all, and I appreciate each and every review and comment. I really enjoyed writing about this pair; I'll probably do so again (I feel that a "first kiss" fic will be in the works soon…). I hope you enjoy this last bit; I enjoyed writing it very much.**

 **~CeeCee**

Christmas Week, 1924

He knocked on his father's door, arms loaded down with pine branches, the Christmassy smell of them making him grin.

"Joseph! How are you, lad?" Mrs. Swift, the maid-of-all-work who came in several times a week for his father, opened the door for him. "Merry Christmas, then, you appear to have brought it in on your own. Your dad's been weaving away or some such the past few days, non-stop. First it 'twas all the neighbors along the road, then the Grantham Arms, then –"

She was interrupted by his father's appearance in the entryway; he'd not gotten past her short but stocky figure.

"Joe! How are you, m'boy? Beautiful, beautiful!" His father's face broke into a wide green when he saw all of the greenery he'd come bearing. His dad had started his holiday tradition of crafting door wreaths a few years back, mostly for his own satisfaction, until most of the village, most notably the church, requested them as holiday decorations. The elder Mr. Molesley refused any payment for them, but he reaped the benefits of his generosity all year long, in any case. A pint on the house at the Arms, freshly baked scones from the family up the road, and so on.

"Dad, I can't stay long. Too much going on at the big house, more guests arriving each day. But I wanted to be sure you got these," he spoke quickly, depositing the sharp-smelling boughs on the long work table already laden with beautiful wreaths.

"I understand, I understand," his father waved away his excuses. "You work hard, Joe, and I hope they appreciate that. I'll see you Boxing Day, latest, I suppose. Maybe, you'll bring that lovely friend of yours by again?"

Joseph felt himself flush, but his father didn't notice; he was turned away, rummaging around on the tall, narrow bookshelf across the room. "Aha!" He exclaimed, pulling a small volume down. He turned, passed it to his son.

"You were looking for this, weren't you? Asked about it, not long after you stopped by with Miss Baxter?" His father's eyes were alight with mischief.

"I was, thank you," he squeezed the book, tucked it into his coat pocket. He cleared his throat. "I…I thought she might be interested in it."

"I think she's interested, son," his father's face stayed warm, but grew serious. "You do things, in your time, Joe, but…but don't wait too long. Nothing's promised. I didn't intend to be a widower when I was a decade younger than you are, for example. But that's what happened."

"Maybe it already _is_ too long, too late, Dad," he replied. "For anything to really be different."

"And maybe it isn't," his father said. "You won't know, until you _know._ I was a young man when your mother died, but we still had over twenty years together, we still had _you._ Look at you, and where you were, a few short years ago, Joe. A lot can happen, a lot can change, in less time than you think."

"You may be right, Dad," he sighed. "Things already feel different, that's the truth." He could hardly believe he was having this conversation. He was saying things he'd never meant to say out loud.

"Merry Christmas, my boy," his father pulled him down into a hug. "You're the best lad, Joe, don't forget it. I think you do, sometimes. That girl of yours, she knows better. She knows you're the best, too. Now, off with you, I'll see you end of the week."

He was halfway back to Downton, enjoying the still, cold late December air and not thinking of much, when he gasped. He pulled out the book his father had given him, paged through, until he found what he was looking for. Sighed, thinking. His face suddenly broke into a grin.

He had an idea.

oooOOOooo

He was in the silver room a few days later, meticulously organizing place settings for Christmas Eve, when Anna Bates found him.

"Mr. Molesley, there you are!" She greeted him with a warm smile. There was still no official word, though there were whispers upstairs and down, that his lordship had gotten in touch with Mr. Bates, somehow, about what he and Miss Baxter had discovered. He wondered when the valet would return.

Right now, the man's wife was grinning up at him. She proffered a small parcel, wrapped carefully in plain brown tissue.

"I found them, what you were looking for," she handed the package to him. It was light as air. He couldn't help it; he grinned, nearly laughed.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates, very much. I knew you'd have a better idea of where to find them than I would," he reached for his billfold to pay her for the items.

"Don't even think of it, Mr. Molesley," she chastised him. "I – and Mr. Bates – owe you far, far more than what those cost."

"Well then, I thank you. I appreciate it was an unusual request," he felt himself grow warm. It was, and really, only one person would understand the meaning of what was nestled in that diminutive bundle. But she was the only person who _needed_ to.

"It was, and I'm _burning_ with curiosity," Anna's face lit up with playful teasing. "But I shan't pester you about it. Perhaps…perhaps someday, you repay the favor by telling me the story behind them."

"Mrs. Bates, if I can tell you the story, it means it all turned out the way it should."

"Well, good luck, Mr. Molesley," she reached out, squeezed his hand. "You deserve it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bates," he nearly whispered. He actually believed her. She left, and he got back to work sorting salad forks and soup spoons. Smiled over at what Anna had brought him. Began humming a carol. It was nearly Christmas, after all.

oooOOOooo

She was standing towards the back of the Great Hall, listening to Lady Mary's lovely voice wafting over the crowd, standing next to Joseph Molesley. Their hands _nearly_ brushing together, close enough for her to feel the heat coming off of his palm.

When she noticed Elsie Hughes making her way pointedly through the crowd, aimed directly at her.

"Miss Baxter, Mr. Molesley," the housekeeper began. Phyllis noticed she looked flustered, happy…and _dreamy._ Which was certainly not a word she would have ever used to describe her superior until this very moment. "Come with me a moment."

They followed her to a quieter spot, along the side of the grand room.

"Mr. Bates has returned," she stated simply, and a short burst of laughter escaped her lips.

"Tonight? _Now?_ " Joseph burst out, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Yes, Mr. Molesley, not a half an hour ago," Elsie Hughes' face was amused. "Thanks primarily to the pair of you, I would say, so I am sorry to have to have to continue by saying we – Mr. Carson and I – have sent the Bates home for the evening. Even Mr. Carson wasn't of the mind to play Scrooge this evening." A softness appeared on the older woman's face, there and gone, at the mention of Downton's butler. It was a moment, only, but Phyllis noticed.

"You'll need me to take care of Ladies Mary and Edith tonight, then, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Exactly right, Miss Baxter, though I'll be right there with you," Elsie Hughes laughed a little. "Mr. Carson is telling his lordship and ladyship about Mr. Bates' arrival as we speak, but, as I needed your assistance in any case Miss Baxter, and it was down to the two of you that the man could return at all, I came to find you first."

"We appreciate that, Mrs. Hughes," Joseph replied. "We – Miss Baxter and I – had hoped Mr. Bates would be home by Christmas, and, well, here he is."

"Indeed, Mr. Molesley," she replied. "This evening has been full of miracles. Now, go find Mr. Carson, and make yourself useful. Miss Baxter, come with me."

Phyllis followed the housekeeper, but turned back to follow Joseph Molesley's progress across the large room. He was still turned towards them. He grinned at her, winked, raised his hands in the air like a prize fighter. She stifled laughter, and hurried after the tidy figure of Elsie Hughes.

It was going to be a long night.

oooOOOooo

She headed downstairs at half past eleven. Mrs. Hughes was still with Lady Mary, and had shooed Phyllis to bed once the Countess and Lady Edith had retired. It was more logical to head directly to bed after such a long day, but she couldn't ignore the persistent, gentle tug at her heart that she may see Mr. Molesley before the evening was over.

However, though several of the staff members were happily chatting in the servants' hall, fueled by platters of treats from the kitchen, she didn't see him. She shook off her disappointment. She would see him tomorrow morning.

She walked down the hallway, past the kitchen, where several figures still moved about.

"Miss Baxter!"

She spun, as Daisy hurried towards her. The young woman was smiling, pulling something out of her apron. It was a small brown bag, folded over a flat rectangular item.

"Mr. Molesley, he wanted me to give this to you," the cook handed it over to her, and she took it, squeezing it in her fingertips. "He went up to bed, but he waited for a bit, before everyone else came down."

"Thank you Daisy," her heart was racing, her voice was calm. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Miss Baxter."

She made her way to her room, shut the door gently. Set the package on her nightstand, and slowly got ready for bed. She wanted nothing more than to tear into it, desperate to see what was inside. But she made herself wait. She donned her simple nightgown, brushed her hair carefully, all the while staring at the plain bag, with its delicious secret.

Once her hair was tidily plaited, she reached her shaking hands out and picked it up. Sat on the edge of her bed, sighed. Squeezed it again. Steeled herself, and finally pulled the object from its paper wrapper.

It was a book: _A Handbook of Greek Mythology & Philosophy._

A sound escaped her, something greater than a sigh, smaller than a cry. She ran her hands over the worn cloth cover of the volume, opened it carefully. In the upper right corner, in schoolboy script: _Joseph Molesley, 1886._

She carefully paged through the sheets that told stories of gods and creatures, good and evil. Until she reached a bookmark of sorts. Brown tissue, folded carefully into a long rectangle around…something.

She unfolded the paper once, twice, three times. Until she revealed them: two feathers, one gold, one red, bound together. She lifted them up, smiled at them. They were ostrich, probably, from some haberdashery or other, quite fashionable for the bejeweled headbands ladies wore around their short bobs.

She laughed out loud, and realized tears were rolling down her face. She left them. She didn't want to damage the delicate feathers.

 _The phoenix,_ she thought, and looked down at the book in her lap. There was a drawing of the mythical bird, staring boldly up at her, surrounded by flames. He didn't look afraid, not at all.

 _From the ashes,_ she thought again, as the feathers gently caressed her palm.


End file.
